All of the interesting turns of events from birthday to now and Caleb is fixated on the title of yesterday's entry as if it's a label I have put onto him, stamped across his forehead as a reminder to learn from my mistakes and grow.
But let's face it. I'm done growing. I was done at eleven or maybe ten. Maybe the Midway food stunted me or maybe Lochlan froze me in time, perfect to fit under his chin or maybe I don't learn from mistakes and therefore are doomed to repeat them over again, ad infinitum. Maybe Caleb wasn't ever a formal enough of a relationship to be considered a mistake, more of an ongoing kind of dalliance that we've never solidified into anything further, as I was always otherwise engaged. Literally engaged. Positively uninterested in ever giving a voice to a marriage of monsters.
In consideration I have thought about it many times and I often wondered if I did, if he would change. If he would be nice or at least somewhat less cruel to me. If he would be kind instead of frightening, loving instead of forceful. Sweet instead of always mean. His charm, his frailty is a mask and as long as I keep that in mind I do okay but his charm is also magnetic, dangerous and deceitful and I am no match for the Devil as I am forever frozen in a time period I would have gone back to if I could find the way. Not for the bad things but for the good and now no one seems to understand that when I write 'My Yesterday', it simply means this is how the day before today went and nothing more. It's not a proclamation or a hidden message. It's just a descriptor. A marker. A heading. It's a story.
It's a shame, is what it is and now I'm going to move on. Fifty-four is almost a year away and so I can let out a long deep breath and plan for the next catastrophe which seems to be the mystagogue in this house, who pretends to be a minister but I swear to God sometimes Sam, like August channels just enough Jake to warm my cold broken heart in the form of these men who keep me going to see what they do next. He's lying on the floor in the living room with headphones on listening to music, which would be quiet and acceptable save for the fact that he's singing so loudly he woke the whole house up.
(He found that Shooter Jennings song. Man. What an amazing fucking song.)
That's exactly what Jake used to do each early March when Lent was under full steam and we all stopped going to church regularly enough for him. He would make sure we were up and at 'em so that we wouldn't be late. We didn't all live together back then so he would drive around town knocking on doors and singing and checking his watch when they would come and open the door in pajamas, rubbing their eyes, probably hungover with no intentions of hearing his service.
And it works now like it worked then. Perfectly.
So off we go. Maybe I'll add more later. Maybe I'll go back to bed.